


Monstrous

by Cockzilla



Category: Wreck-It Ralph (2012)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Breathplay, F/M, Femdom, Light Bondage, Mild Gore, Pre-Canon, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cockzilla/pseuds/Cockzilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You (female) are a video game character modeled after your real-life self, or at least you were before your game got unplugged for being too horrific and you found a job as a surge protector. Now you've stumbled across a game-glitching criminal and you have him at your mercy. Will your moral code stand strong, or will your old violent code flare back up? (Okay that question is answered in the archive warnings and tags but you get the idea.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monstrous

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posting this to AO3 to test and see if this is a better reading format than my tumblr.  
> http://cockzilla-vs-fanfic.tumblr.com/post/40934861613/monstrous  
> I originally posted it there, so if you want to lambast it on tumblr here you go.  
> Also, if anyone is interested, you could edit it to be a male-you version, and I'll look over it and post it here as a second chapter just let me know.  
> Even if the reading layout is better, that won't make the content any more palatable....

It had started out as a relatively normal morning. Then you had put on your uniform, you noticed it was wrinkled, that you had hung it up wrong and ruined how you’d ironed it. The coffee you made was bitter and off tasting. You even had to untangle your hair from where it had wound itself around your wire filament while you were sleeping. Overall it was shaping up to be an unpleasant morning, but maybe you’d just used up all your bad luck early.

As mobile surge protector unit, your duties involved patrolling the power strip station itself, rather than monitoring the movements in and out of it. Even though it earned you respect and a quick step out of your way, sometimes you regretted your conversion from code to pure electricity. The bright blue color scheme got dull quick, and it reminded you of how far you were now from your start as the protagonist of a recalled horror game. Too many things about your game had been a touch too creepy, and while the monsters, gory and detailed and often conceptually disturbing, were what had the whole neighborhood calling in to Litwak’s to complain, you often thought you were the creepiest. When you figured out you had been written like and modeled after a real person, you had suffered from nightmares for weeks. But now, your creepy origin was comforting to you, a small reminder of the game and home you’d been forced to leave behind.

The monsters had been too into their roles to listen to you when you had tried to get them to evacuate. You were the only one who ended up homeless in Game Central Station, looking for what to do next. You had chosen to be one of the ‘boys’ in electron blue, rather than retain your ability to go into the code of the other games. You were glad you were helping, rather than waiting around, growing more and more depressed like some of the homeless game characters you’d seen pass through Game Central Station. The most common problem was the rough way some customers would handle the console games, yanking them out, damaging the pens or scratching the disks, and without fully turning off the system. whoever could would rush out into the station, but with no recourse, they’d slowly fade into the shadows, until they wandered into a game with just enough bottomless pits and never came back out. It was a depressing thought only made more relevant when you had to pick up a dirty scrap of white glove. Glover had been gone for over a week, so you decided it was time to give up his ghost and take the scrap down to lost and found.

You descended the stairs near the terminal’s large departure/arrival time display, circled around the control board for it and waved hi to half-awake Greg, the surge protector manning it. Then, hesitating at the landing, you descended the rest of the way into the basement of the station. Large pieces of a central computer made a maze of the room, large glowing buttons and bright, simple read-out screens were the only source of lighting in the otherwise unlit hall. They were large, floor to ceiling, and looked much too complex for their simple purposes of monitoring power fluctuations and routing the power to the memory batteries of the games. It was a stark reminder that the power strip that was now your livelihood had been in use since the early eighties, only a few years ago but ages in terms of technological advancements. You walked through the dim and depressing terminals, your own glowing body providing the rest of the light needed to easily navigate the hidden part of Grand Central Station. At the back of the room was your destination, a miserable looking pile of power ups, props, and scraps of code lost from games or from lost games. You hated looking at it, because you couldn’t help but remember which was which.

You turned the corner of the last computer terminal in the room, then immediately ducked back behind it. There was someone rifling quietly through the objects. You peeked back around, trying not to cast too much light on the scene and alert the intruder to your presence. Since many of the items were powerups, only surge protectors were allowed access to the lost and found. Characters could come down to look for a lost item or alternate outfit, but only escorted by a protector. No one else was around while this little gremlin of a character was groaning in frustration and throwing the items he rejected behind him. His jumpsuit was a dingy white with faded red accents, his scuffed helmet of the same color scheme. It was simple, like one of the eight-bit games. He picked up a poisonous shroom, scoffed and threw it over his shoulder. You knew the size of those thing, and based off that, you judged him to come up to, at most, your rib cage. His paunchy middle and thin arms made it clear he wasn’t programmed as a fighting character. You had considered fetching back-up for this trouble maker, but you could handle this kind of thing on your own.

You walked slowly, heel-to-ball of one foot, then just as carefully the other. You kept your breathing shallow and silent. Your eyes were trained on the side of his face, slightly hidden by his helmet, for any indication that he had noticed your approach. Suddenly his arms flared outwards, his back stiffen, and he froze in his search. You froze a second later, breath entirely held, and slid one foot out to the side ot brace yourself. But instead of turning, he frantically began pushing around object in the pile, going for something at the very bottom. He got his hands on whatever it was, still too buried in the pile from your vantage point, and began tugging on it and grunting at each unsuccessful pull. Being daring seemed okay, and you resumed your agonizingly slow steps by timing them with his noises of frustration. Then, foot halfway planted, still hovering on the heel, you stopped again when he finally yanked the object free. He was laughing giddily, trying and failing to do so under his breath, as he held a large, slightly dented, golden trophy above his head.

When you saw the trophy, saw the name of the last winner etched into it under the gaudily huge “#1”, all the warnings your older coworkers had given you about characters going ‘Turbo’ came rushing back to you. His dimly luminescent yellow eyes, exactly as your old superior had described them were wide and excited, reflected in the shiny surface of the winner’s trophy. Then they shifted, looking at your bright blue, warped reflection via the golden cup. He didn’t react that fast, a joke you stored away for later, when you were in more of a laughing mood, and you launched towards him. You grabbed precisely, a good hold of his closest arm with you right hand, but he stumbled down onto his left side before you could grab his left arm. You fell with him, onto your hands and knees in a cage over him. Still from your vantage, his large helmet obscured your view in such a way that you could not see him thrash and twist his free arm under his body and up. The punch to your right breast was sharp and vicious, and you assumed he knew what he was aiming for because it was quite effective. You fell on him, trying to keep him pinned while you caught your breath. His left arm was caught beneath his body better, unable to get his elbow free enough to reach you. But his legs, between yours, were still free and frantically kicking whatever part of your knees and thighs they could reach.

“Get off me, you ginormous cow. It’s my trophy, it belongs to me, I should-”

Recovered from your pain, you sprang back up and pulled out harshly on his right arm. He was jarred out of his tirade and his body was pulled flat to the ground. Before he could get his left arm out from under himself, you had yours pressing most of your weight in between his shoulder blades. His strangled sound of pain and frustration was pushed into a wheeze when you put even more weight on your arms in order to bring your legs up and straight, knees together. Then, you watched his legs, now twitching in pain more than flailing to kick you, until they were far enough apart. You planted your knees back in between them, then lifted them just enough to pin his legs down beneath your own shins. Now that you had him still, if not very comfortable (you could hear him breathing out a steady stream of ‘owowow’), you thought you ought to tell him what you were holding him down for.

“It doesn’t matter who that trophy belongs to. If it is yours, then you’re Turbo, a criminal by Game Central Station laws and wanted for the unplugging of two separate games.”

You could feel his shoulders flinch under the heel of your hand. He paused his ‘very subtle’ attempts to slowly worm his right hand out of your hold.

“No, it’s just from my old game but, I’m not…”

He was mumbling, his words trailing off so quietly that you could barely hear them. You leaned down closer, trying to make them out. Suddenly, the heavy plastic of the helmet impacted harshly with your jaw. The noise of it shot through the rest of your head, loud from both the inside and outside of your head. You were hurt, disoriented, but more than either of those, you were angry. Reacting to that anger faster than conscious thought, you brought Turbo’s right hand in towards his back, which you had let go of to grab his left arm. He must have brought it out from under himself without thinking, because it was so easy to get a good hold on it. You lent back, crouching all of your weight on his legs (a strangled scream) and pulled both together over his back (a full shout). You held both his wrists together over his spine with your right hand and with your free hand reached your fingers under the edge of his helmet. In one fluid, if overly rough to the short gray man’s cranium, motion, you pried it off his head and threw it into the corner of the room just to your left. Only seconds had passed and you were still seethingly angry, you jaw stinging and ragged breath forcefully hissing out through your gritted teeth. Pain contorting his already warped face, he was twisting his head to the side to look up at you and spew curses that you were too pissed to hear. You acted on impulse, punching his head down onto the ground, then again when he bobbed back up, yelling in pain. On the second shove towards the smooth floor, you held it there, moving the pressure around on it to grind his left ear between his skull and the hard concrete floor.

You realized from the strain on your face that you were smiling. It was something left over from all the off hours spent with your monster co-workers you always thought, hoping that while you’d acted as the romans did, you hadn’t actually become one. So you closed your mouth, fought with yourself to calm down, bring back the anger and ignore Turbo’s open mouthed gurgles of pain. Ii was hard. You had been unplugged not long after Turbo’s rampage, and had the grand task of checking up on the faceless drivers from Roadblasters. You’d seen them somehow communicate the grandest confusion at the fate, the existential frustration of not belonging anywhere, and eventually the crushing depression that led to their slow disappearances, as blank, low poly bodies without faces. You anger was back. You looked around for something you could just punch, tear apart, to release your anger. You released turbo’s head, let it lie limp against the ground as he struggled to catch his breath from the pain. You rifled through what you could reach of the stack, looking for a pillow or anything to dig your fingers into. Then you uncovered something that solved one problem, but brought up another. You quickly re-covered it, and looked down to see if Turbo had seen it too. His eyes were rolled up under his fluttering eyelids, his breath slowing and a moan self-mourning escaping every few seconds. Your find was safe, but now the decision was all up to you.

The maxim tomato you’d found in the pile was still fresh, bright red, and able to fully heal a video game character like the one you had pinned and shuddering under you. It solved the problem of how you were going to cover up the undue force you’d taken in subduing him. I created another problem: since it would erase any undue force, you could do a little more, or even a lot more. It was a problem, because in your programming, it had always been pure and innocent you against the twisted monsters. But now you weren’t ruled by any code, and all that was left was your off time, spent with your monster friends, playing bloodsport and chummily getting under each other’s skin, sometimes literally. Suddenly, you were mad at yourself for denying your violent urges, denying your last precious tie to your lost game. And you’d take it out on the little son of a bitch who deserved it.

Your expression was serene as you unbuckled your belt one handed, pulling it free of its belt loops harshly and whipping it out to slap loudly against the floor. You were decided of your course of action, and your conscience had graciously stepped aside on the matter. Turbo was coming back to his senses,

“What are you doing back there? Planning on kicking a guy while he’s down again, you bitch?”

You lifted his wrists up above his back, enough to cut off any more jabs in his discomfort and enough for you to lace one end of the belt under them. You threaded the belt through the buckle, making a tight loop, which took the place of the hand holding them together. Now two handed, you finished tying an awkward but tight and secure knot with your belt. Your serene expression had grown into a smirk, and you lay out in a parody of relaxation on the ex-racer’s back, not even minding the clump of pinching hands and stiff belt that was digging into your ribs. Your weight pushed him back against the ground, face again smooshed to the side and in the perfect position for you to chuckle near his ear.

“Kick you while you’re down? You have no idea.”

You pushed yourself back up, then crouched behind him, finally removing your shins from the back of his thighs. You watched him try to move them, get them under himself and stand up, only to flop back down with a strangled squeak. His legs had to be well asleep by now. You reached out, clutching his ankle in a strong grip and twisted it.

“Ah-hhhhhhhh you bitchyoubitchyoubitch sssss.”

Yes, nice and asleep. But you still stood up and moved out of their radius. There was no telling when the blood flow would return. You knelt, grabbing his forearms, still tied behind him, like a handle, and grunted a little as you lifted him up by them. He turned his head to the left, glaring at you through a visible wince and spat through his glower,

“Put me down you overgrown nightlight.”

You simply raised an eyebrow at him and lifted him a touch higher, then laughed and dropped him from shoulder height.

“Your wish is my command.”

It was fairly obvious that he probably didn’t hear the last bit of that, since the thump of his head and body hitting the floor, and the simultaneous wail of shock and then pain, probably drowned it out. But a full minute of silence after his fall, accompanied by slow twitching of his legs and back, had you wondering if you’d already damaged him to his limit. There was no telling how fragile he could be, out of his helmet and not coded to take a hit in the first place. You paced around him, watching him carefully for any signs of consciousness. There was one way to test that you knew would be effective. You tapped one black boot at the point where turbo’s legs met as lightly as you could. He gave himself away by how still he became, maybe hoping to fool you and avoid what you were planning to do at some point anyway. You let your foot rest there, just lightly putting pressure on the back of his package. He abandoned any artifice of oblivion and snapped his head up to look back at what you were doing, eyes and mouth open in gasping panic.

“You wouldn’t dare! Not to me!”

“Of course to you! Getting a game unplugged is a horrible thing. So,”

You brought your toes down hard and sharp, but not all the way, and bright it back up just as quickly. You were afraid a full stomp might make the racer pass out, and then all your fun would be over.

“- that’s especially for you.”  
He was making gasping squeaks then, the sound coming from the air entering his tightened vocal chords, rather than leaving it. You pulled his head up from where his face was hiding against the floor, watching the small trickle of tears squeeze out of the corner of his eye as he fought against the pain. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to look at you while you ran your thumb against the sweaty, sparse buzzed hair beside the irregular stripe of his mohawk. You waited until his eyes fluttered back open, if still unfocused, to wipe your finger through the line of tears and bright it back to your lips to taste it. Through the salty oil you could taste the faint trace of his unwashed skin, and you smiled around the digit in your mouth. Just further confirmation that he deserved everything he got, for the other abandoned game characters at least spent their free time keeping themselves in their best condition should their game ever be plugged back in. Turbo must have had no such need, since he knew his game wasn’t coming back.

“So, crybaby, ready for the rest of your punishment?”

“Punishment? For what, you brainless dumbass? For being the best racer alive? You’ll pay for this mistake when I get free. You’ll pay-”

Despite the last tears oozing out from his angry, squinted eyes, the way his voice broke and jumped around in register, he still delivered his threat with the utmost cockiness. From your position, it was both funny and insulting. Funny enough to keep you smiling while you avenged the insult with a fist to his face. After the impact, you released his head and let it flop back against the cold concrete. After that, you weren’t giving him time to recover. you gave him a swift kick in his side, just below his ribs. He screamed, short from the lack of air in his lungs. You ground the heel of your boot into the clump of rapidly opening and closing fists and fingers, listening to the thickness of his scream as the tears came back, now with a drier saltier mouth. You wanted to taste it, see if it was as unclean as his tear-slicked face. The thought made heat and blood flood your face, flustered you and distracted you from your fun for a brief minute with how unnatural it seemed. Maybe you were just remembering your play fights with the shredded-skin monster. He was your best friend, and he had no mouth. It had been a shame to waste good blood in your former home game, so you’d often helped him clean up after your brawls and slipped in a taste or two in the process. So you rationalized it, that errant thought about the man beneath you and his phlegm choked mouth, as a normal, nostalgic reaction to beating on someone. But the memories of blood and its taste, right after thinking about the game-jumper’s mouth, was just giving you more bright, embarrassing ideas.

You bent down, angled his head so his chin was just resting on the spit and snot smeared floor below him. Confusion laced his angry glare as he looked up at you, but pain must have been addling his (normally fast?) sense, as he held the posture for you. You were so proud of how he was falling for it that your grin could have rivaled his on his better days, if the stories were to be believed. He realized that he’d fucked up somehow, that you’d won something over him, but he must not have discerned what because his jaw was still in the trajectory of your foot when you let it fly. There was a wet, solid sound when your kick connected, and the force of the hit swung his body out to the left, pulled by the momentum of his head, which was trailing the path of his jaw. You waited until he stopped, admiring the arc of the blood splatter he coughed out. He curled into a fetal position on his side, pushing himself off his gut with his awakened legs. You listened to the harsh Aaahhs interspersed by the spitting of more blood and fluid. Then came the beautiful, tiny sound: a little clatter against the floor where a bright yellow tooth coated in red tumbled out of his mouth onto the floor.

You raced down to his level, knowing in the back of your head how bright and mad your eyes must have been in the moment. You rolled him over onto his back by roughly maneuvering his left shoulder, then used both his shoulders to lift and prop him up against the wall (a motion none too kind to the back of his skull). He used what leverage he had while your arms were still tangled up under his to kick up at you viciously, hissing a thinning spatter of spittle and blood onto your face when he did. The spit was insulting, and the kick had hurt like hell as it ground your skin and shirt around the side of your ribs. But you were beyond your anger now, into something that you couldn’t or wouldn’t name, and too excited by the unarmed emotion to care about your captive’s attacks. Instead you fell forward from your crouch, again pinning his legs beneath your own. You grabbed his jaw with your left hand, pushing up on it until you had his whole head pinned between it and the wall. He was glaring over his gaunt, grey cheeks bones at you, in pain but seemingly unimpressed. You watched it, waiting for him to eat his unspoken words when you shoved two fingers from your free right hand into the corner of his mouth. Inevitably, the confusion got to him, and his eyes boggled down at your strange actions. You could feel him struggling in your grip to twist his head free, open his teeth and bite down, anything to stop what your were doing. Because he didn’t understand what you were doing, and you could see just how much that terrified him. You felt sad, because with what you were about to do, you weren’t going to be able to see just how his horror would multiply.

Spreading your two fingers, you propped his lips open and away from his teeth. You leaned in, tongue just daring to lick out at the yellow teeth. The taste was too faint. You gave up the hesitation, letting your whole tongue slide against the gritted molars, tasted the beer and food that remained as stains of past meals, and then scooped the point of it down to lap against his gums where the majority of the blood was pooling. You felt him gasp, the air cool against your probing muscle. Tasting it with just your tongue wasn’t enough, and you closed your lips around his lips and your fingers, and sucked. A voice in the the farthest reaches of your mind whispered ‘kiss’ but you ignored the irrelevant thought to pull back and focus on the flavor, rolling the salty liquid around in your mouth. The sound of you swallowing was loud in the quiet of the room, and when Turbo let out a shuddering breath you realized he’d been holding his breath in. You chuckled, imagining his revolted face. Picturing the grimace he’d have if he could escape your grip reminded you of the tooth. You twisted your grip on the underside of the short man’s neck and turned his face towards you, still pushing his lips up and down towards his gums. There was a flat tooth missing from the the bottom of his mouth, and the hole it had left behind was bright red with the blood welling up in it. The sight of it made you sloppy, your own mouth wide as you pressed it as close to his as your could, tongue dipping into the crimson hollow. You closed and sucked a few times to fully taste the salty blood you were swilling around around in the pocket of rough, slippery tissue.

You were so enthusiastic about licking the wound that… you were out of breath? It didn’t make sense to you. You never got this out of breath when you were roughhousing with your monster coworkers. And Turbo was making some kind of sound, cut off in his throat, that also assailed your nostalgia.

“Hhnnnnnnhhhnnnn…nnn…”

You struggled to place it, different as it was from the other sounds of pain you’d been wringing from him since you’d restrained him. You pulled back, licking the stray blood from your lips while idly rubbing a finger in the missing tooth’s socket, and looked up as his expression for clues. His eyes were closed and tense, and his temples were shiny with sweat. Not abnormal. Neither was his heavy breathing, only odd in the whines that peppered it. You withdrew your finger from his mouth and brought it to yours for a last little taste. One squinted eye was open, watching you lick his blood from your hand, and while he watched, he bit his lip with his undamaged teeth. Why in the world would he cause himself more pain? It still wasn’t occurring to you, and while you were puzzling it out, you got tired of leaning over him and sat back. What finally cleared it up for you was the thing you sat on, warm and solid between your legs.

You jumped up, and away from his legs, even though you were sure they would be asleep again. You could only look at the wall, fighting off in internal debate that didn’t even need to happen until you confirmed something. Turbo was stammering out excuses while you absent-mindedly scrambled for the maxim tomato you’d hidden. The missing tooth brought out the faint lisp you’d noticed earlier, and it would have been comical if you weren’t dealing with an internal crisis.

“Hey! That’s uh, not what you think it… I don’t-”

You shoved the tomato in front of his mouth, but he kept it shut tight, giving you a weak glare that was ruined by his overly dilated pupils. You growled in frustration and grabbed his nose with your other hand, pinching it and yanking up on it to jolt open his mouth. The got him to eat it, in a messy process because of his breaks to breathe. Surprise washed over his face and he began moving what joints and limbs he could. You withdrew your hand before he could bite at it around the remaining fruit, and while watching him finish it, you saw the faint top of a tooth in the socket of the fallen one. You supposed that kind of thing just couldn’t heal instantly. You let go of his nose, and, now standing over him from his side to avoid his recovered legs, reached down down towards the object of concern. He must have assumed you’d healed him only to start fresh, because he tried to scoot away from your hand the best he could, hands tied behind his back and half propped up against the wall. It wasn’t very good at all and he when you rubbed the knuckle of an index finger over the length of it, tucked just to the right of his zipper. It was still there, ruling out your one face-saving theory that you’d somehow damaged the lower part of his brain when you’d kicked him around, because you knew about the involuntary erections that could cause. But it obviously wasn’t that. You ignored his breathy moan as you continued to run your knuckles over it, testing how turgid it was, and gulped when you felt something else along it’s length. A wet spot, too far down the shaft to be him but just the right spot based on where you’d landed earlier. You walked away from the further confused racecar driver, crossing your legs as you walked closer than was necessary, trying to subtly confirm what you knew was true.

From the first day you’d been plugged in, you’d known what sex was. But you hadn’t actually been active, back in the days when you’d still play-maul your old peers for fun. Since the unplugging of your game, you’d hooked up with a few drunkards in the back of tappers, thought it had been a frustratingly long time since you’d had an encounter of the sort. This was the first time since you’d started being active below the belt that you’d fought like the old days. Who ever it was, just the fact that the two loves could combine inside of you was startling. After processing that shock, then you could consider just who was making you this aroused. A miniature criminal with bad hygiene and murders on his record? You looked at the other factors, blushing harder as you went down the list. Fighting him one sided, tying him up, milking him for his blood and tears. That must have been it.

In the middle of frantically trying to understand your own sexuality, the compact egomaniac reminded you of his.

“You… You’re not going to just, just, leave me here like this are you? After everything else you’ve done to me?”

You considered him over your shoulder, literally and metaphorically. He was a braggart, one that would say anything to get out of a bad situation. And who would ever even deign to do anything inappropriate with him, after what the whole arcade knew he did? If you did do anything while you had him tied up, it wasn’t like anyone would take his word about it over yours…

“Seriously? I’m tied up here, so I can’t even touch myself. This isn’t even fun; I just want to get rid of it.”

He was just whining, but damned if it wasn’t the most convincing thing he could say. You turned back around, avoiding looking at him. You unbuttoned your blue, collared shirt and threw it on the pile of powerups that was stacked against one of the computer towers. You rolled your sports bra (heavily-duty, as you had to be prepared to run down even the fastest of miscreants in the grand halls of the station) up over your head, keeping it in a rolled loop. You wrapped the stretchy undergarment around his sneakers, effectively binding his legs together at the ankle, and causing him to grumble a protest that was largely incoherent. He sounded distracted. He was blissfully quiet as moved to stand above his erection. Then, you sat down casually on the root of it, halfway onto his thighs, and watched his frustrated expression out of the corner of your eye as you pulled up a pants leg and began untying one boot. As you loosened the laces on it with one hand, you let the other wander up to your breast, absently rolling your fingers over the soft flesh and the tensed nipple flesh. Really, it was just a thing to warm yourself up, but the way Turbo’s eyes were following your hand like homing beacons, and the fact he could do nothing about it with his mouth over a foot away and his hands still roughly gathered behind his back, made your idle play into a sex act of it’s own. Still you left off to tug your boot and sock off and start the process over on the other foot, agonizingly slowly. You could feel his pulse against the soaked spot of your pants, and you knew he could feel the heat of you just as clearly against his cock and balls.

Finally off with you cumbersome (but comfortable) footwear, you now had your pants to conquer.  
Rather than stand back up, you felt like doing it how you did it at home. There was no need to appear dignified in the eyes of the criminal you’d just beaten bloody. You laid back, his bound legs providing a nice cradle for you back and his clownishly large feet a perfect prop for your head. You expected him to kick at you, or at least move them out of the way, but he was being startlingly complacent after the turn things had taken. You lifted your legs into the air, unzipped your pants, and hooked your fingers into the waistband of your pants and underwear. You slid them up and over your knees, off passed your ankles, and threw them back to where you’d left your shirt. For a moment you had the traditional nervous thought about getting caught in such a position in a state if undress. Then you remembered how you had looked earlier, brutalizing your little captive, and wanted to laugh at the thought that this was the more compromising scene. You pushed yourself back up, noticing that Turbo’s eyes were less trained and were now greedily jumping around to whatever part of your body he felt like staring at.

“Wow, damn. I was going to make a crack about blue, but it’s … really your color.”

You wanted to laugh at him and his compliment, because it really made him look pathetic. Getting stomped on only moments ago and here he was buttering you up? For such a braggart he didn’t seem to have much self respect. Instead, you held your tongue and unzipped his jumpsuit, going a bit slower as your hand slid over the side of his erection. When it was fully unzipped, you lingered over the smell of oily skin and fear sweat, bitter and powerful. A trail of thin, black hair crested a beer gut, led down to his dick, sans any trace of underwear, and the precum that trailed from it onto the matted happy trail below it. You slipped the jumpsuit down over his shoulders, giving it the slack you needed to get his dick and balls fully clear of the zipper. His sigh of relief turned to little, halting gasps as you steered the shaft around by a finger swirling over it’s slick, flushed head. It was grey, though a bit darker than the rest of him, and flushed under the skin with red. It looked large on his frame, flaring out from his torso in the same cartoonish was as his hands and feet, but was nothing daunting for someone with normal proportions like yourself. Still, Turbo tried to play it up through his stuttering breaths.

“Ihh-h-Impressive huh? I used to say that’s what I really earned my trophies with.”

You flicked his shaft just below the head, and the squeak he made in his throat was devoid of dignity. While he nursed his pride, you shifted forward, trapping his dick between your cunt and his soft stomach. Hands on his shoulders, you started grinding yours against his, licking your lips and struggling to breath through your nose lest you let out a moan at the much anticipated sensation. Turbo leant his head back, not even a bit as reticent about the obscene sounds he was making. Then they stopped and you could feel him stretching his head upwards. When you felt a wide, flat lick just barely slide along the underside of your breast, you couldn’t help but swear.

“Ah, fuck. You mangy little…”

His voice was gravely as he laughed, and you could hear him lick his lips, as though it was intended for you to hear. You ignored his cockiness, instead focussing on what you wanted inside of you all the sooner. You lifted your hips up, grabbing his cock and running a thumb over it to feel if it was slick enough. You shifted it back and forth, rubbing the slick head against your even slicker lips, and smirked down as his mesmerized face. He was whispering,  
“Go go go, come on let’s go start, put it in gear-”  
And you slid down onto him in one go, quickly shutting him up. All he could do was bite his lip and close his eyes, head twisted to the side and pressed tight to his shoulder. You curiously ran a hand under his jumpsuit, brushing a thumb over his nipple. His eyes flashed open, pleading up at you.

“J-Just give me a caution lap, jeeze.”

You weren’t fully familiar with what he was saying, but from the rapid pulse you could feel in his chest and the way he looked at your breasts then quickly away, you figured he had to be right on the edge. You waited, lightly dragging your nails along his chest to keep them from going to your clit. You were using the opportunity that had popped up, and you weren’t going to deign to do any of the work yourself. Soon enough his breathing calmed down, and you had the displeasure of seeing his face split into a shit-eating grin.

“Green flag, sugar, good to go.”

You answered his grin with a disapproving grimace, but began to move regardless. You let your eyes slip almost closed as his head rubbed repeatedly against a lovely spot inside of you, and you rolled your hips just enough to press your clit against his pelvis at every dip. The sight of Turbo, unfocused and panting with his tongue almost out of his mouth below you was just the icing on top of it all. You let your eyes close fully, drifting into the sensation, letting bits of your voice filter out with each brush against your pleasure points. You felt the familiar warmth creep up under your skin, though processes fading into the building static of the sensations. It only got better as Turbo started writhing up, thrusting as best he could with what little leverage he could get. Then he had to go and break the spell.

“I can feel you going into overdrive, babe. Tighter than the last turnnnn.”

Your dead-eyed glare should have been burning holes in the wall in front of you, as disparaging as it was. You kept going though, desperate to build back up your charge. You had been so close, you were literally dripping down your thigh. It shouldn’t be too hard. You closed your eyes again, conjuring up the memories of how he’d screamed when you’d taken your boots to him. You groaned through gritted teeth at the memory, bliss shaping the rest of your expression and you sped up, bouncing arrhythmically on his twitching cock. The change of pace had him incoherent, garbled sounds of pleasure the only thing escaping his throat. Your hands and his shoulders were getting sweaty enough that you almost lost your handle on them. You brought a hand up and licked the mix off your palm, humming low in your throat at the salty and musky taste. You looked down, peeking at the scene below you just to put your hand back in the right place, and made dreaded eye contact. It was inevitable, with the way Turbo was taking in the show your mouth and hand had put on. When you set your hand back down, accidentally digging your fingers into his flesh in your dread, his eyes rolled up and his hissed out the worst of it yet.

“Oh sugar, I’m seeing checkers, just checkers!”

You pushed off his shoulders, standing up from where you were straddling him as quickly as possible. The sudden removal of his warm dick and the change in your elevation was enough to make you stumble back a bit, dizzy from your current distribution of blood. Turbo could only let out a sound like a sob crossed with a screech to describe his surprise. You snarled down at him,

“No. No more fucking racing terms. You killed your game and your fellow characters. I don’t want to hear another word about it…”

You trailed off, suddenly thinking up a nice way to finish what you started and filter out any more of his disturbing revelry in the obsession, the reason for the deaths of his fellow racers. You got down on your knees over his chest and began pushing on his shoulders to shift him down. It was a bit of a tough job while he kept bashing his skull against your forearms.

“You blue bitch! I was so close! It feels worse than chrashi-mppf”

Hand planted firmly on the back of his head, you pushed him flush against your mons and pushed on the back of his neck with your other hand to coax his jaw forward against your vulva. You felt his lips curl back, farther than necessary, then caught onto his plans when you felt teeth scrape against your inner labia and shift around trying to line up just right. His scream was muffled against your dripping wet flesh when you twisted his ear almost off in the matter of a half second.

“The second you bite anything down there, my knee is going directly down on your dick.”

He didn’t respond, squinting up at you under hooded eyebrows while closing his mouth and curling his lips inward, away from your pussy. You let a grimace curl your lip and flare your nose.

“Won’t cooperate? Here’s a little incentive.”

You pressed his face even harder against your cunt, and felt his turned up nose press into your mons. For a second you could feel him sniff, saw his eyelids flutter over his pupils, before he regained his stony expression.

“The deal is: the sooner you get me off, the sooner I let you breath again.”

That got him to drop the stubborn facade quick. Eyebrows high and worried, he began licking desperately. You could feel him trying to suck in air around his darting tongue, mainly choking on spit and vaginal fluids. You idly stroked your thumb through the hair on the back of his head, and you could feel him tense and tug at the front edge of your opening with the tip of his tongue. It was startling, that he’d lapse into actual technique rather than simple frantic licking. He did it a second time, indicating he’d caught on to your reaction, and you let go of his ear to stabilize yourself against the wall behind him. The panic was gone from his face, replaced by as much concentration as he could muster at such depleted breathing capacity. He twisted his tongue, and the rough edge of it created vision- blurring friction against your clit. He fell to rapidly repeating the motion, movements getting more imprecise between each desperate sliver of a breath he managed to take. Your eyes were closed tight as the sensation started to overwhelm you, but on impulse you took a peek down. Then you let out a broken yell and curled forward, the top of your head pressed to the wall as you came. When your mind cleared of the mental static roar, you couldn’t remember if it was some new twist of his sloppy tongue that sent you over the edge, or the lovely dark color his face had been taking on.

When you were done shuddering, you gave one last push against Turbo’s face and backed your hips away. The loud, uninhibited gasp for air he gave was music to your ears. He let his head droop back, sliding sideways against the cool wall. You watched his expression flicker through so many different emotions as oxygen slowly filtered back into his brain. First was the euphoria of air and a tough job finally finished. Then a testing look at you, to see if he had done a good job, if he had your approval. Then, his eyes flicking down and at his own slouched form, disgust with himself for seeking your favor. Then, when his breathing calmed, his eyes came back to yours, clenched and finally properly angry at you, who had almost caused him to black out. You gave him one short laugh when he settled on the last face, almost pitying him for thinking his glare would have any effect.

“You deplorable bitch. I could have died! Permanently!”

You reached a hand down ruffling his hair, and grinned even wider when he flinched away. You’d have hated to think your new play thing had already been broken. But you also looked forward to it.

“What? Like all the NPCs in Turbo Time or RoadBlasters? Not taking responsibility for that yet?”

“Responsibility for what? Seeing where my game was headed? Trying something new? Trying to survive? What should I apologize for, what… what are you doing?”

You had been tuning him out, his unrepentant drivel boring you. You had instead sat outside of the range of his kicks and had put your socks back anon and were reaching for your pants.

“Putting on my clothes? If you’re so delusional that you can’t even own up to killing off your game-mates, just imagine I’m doing something else.”

The shock drew long his face, eyes blinking once, then again as his mouth flapped open. He looked down at his dick, then back at you, his lip curling up and a weak scoff struggling out of his now hoarse throat. Finally, words surfaced,

“You… You really are going to be that much of a bitch? I almost DIED giving you head and you’re just going to leave me like this? You’re not even going to touch me?”

You pulled on another sock, then checked on your filament and found it had been almost flattened to your hair in your earlier squirming against the wall. You straightened it out, not flinching when Turbo slapped his long tennis shoes against the concrete. You saw him lick his lips out of the corner of your eye, preparing another plea.

“Besides… Didn’t it feel good? You were so tight around me, and super wet. Like, come over and feel, it’s still wet, and getting cold…”

The sneering attempt at a smile and the the ‘enticing’ twitch of his eyebrows had your underwear slipping from your hands as you were wrought with laughter. You fell back from sitting up, rolling back as you let your laughter at the absurdity overtake you. He misinterpreted this as a positive reaction, desperately continuing.

“And you can’t deny you didn’t love the way I licked you. I could taste just how much you loved it.”

You pushed yourself back up, holding up a hand to stop him while you tried to fight off the laughter that was robbing you of air. You wiped the traces of tears from the corners of your eyes.

“Stop, you little shit, I can only laugh at how pathetic you are for so long before I pass out.”

Turbo’s nose curled, but as he self-consciously shifted, you were tempted to look down at the bobbing, still stiff erection between his legs. There was still something glistening on the surface of the head, though it looked to be more his precum than your leftovers. That he was still even dripping… At least his cock was a trooper, even if the owner was a ship jumper at the first sign of trouble.

“If all you’re going to do is laugh at me, at least flip me over. I could just hump the ground if you’re going to leave me here.”

He grumbled it to himself, thinking you were ignoring him, but the words kindled what was left of your excitement. He was basically on the edge of begging to grind his dick against cold concrete. He knew you had him by his (probably aching by now) balls and he was only suggesting the bare minimum. The submission had you hissing under your breath, and you could feel the temptation to reach out and tease your fingers against the side of his boner building up in you. But, you wouldn’t be talked into giving him what he wanted so easily. A new plan formed in your head, fueled by your hunger for him to bow to you again.

“So, you really want me to touch you that badly?”

“Hey! I’m not begging or anyth-”

He clammed up as you stood and wandered over to him, arms crossed and finger tapping against a bicep.

“Not begging hmm? Well here:”

You braced yourself against the wall with one hand, the other falling to rest on your hip as you raised up a leg and brought your knee to the side of his forehead.

When he regained the ability to coordinate his mouth, he snarled up at you,

“I’m never going to beg you.”

“What a delusional little racer. I bet you still won’t own up to your deadly mistake. And now you won’t admit what’s inevitable.”

You lent down, headbutting his head against the wall to hold it in place while you reached down and dug your fingernails into his nipples in a brutal pinch-and-twist. You smiled as his warm breath brushed over your lips from his scream. You twisted your head to the side and moved up a bit, feeling his already tight knit eyebrows draw even closer in pain as you bit sidewise onto his nose. Hard. You twisted a bit, not breaking the bone but causing blood to be released under the skin, then let go and stood back up to admire your handiwork. He did look so much better, a bit bruised, the rims of his eyelids slick with the start of tears, and his mouth hanging open to take in air after screaming in pain.

“You are inevitably going to beg me to touch you. To touch and not to hurt you. Nicely.”

“Nnnn-”

You braced yourself again, raising a foot to slip it under his chin and pressed the ball of it into his windpipe. He shut up instantly, eye fearfully trained on the foot under his jaw and tried to worm away from it, decidedly uneager to relive his earlier oxygen deprivation.

“Was I about to hear a no? You’re just full of denial. You could just imagine things the way you want. Imagine my fists are soft touches, your warm blood as my wet lips kissing yours…”

You twisted your foot, digging your toes into the spot where tongue met trachea.

“Imagine you’re not a dirty murderer, that you’re still a well loved race-car driver.”

You could see that one hit him, a different kind of pain than the kind that had him squirming away from your foot in a panic. It took him beyond his immediate terror, to somewhere darker, his eyes shifting to a long distance focus for a brief second, his lips stiff in pain briefly going slack. You let off on the pressure, and he looked up at you, defeat slowly weighing down his features.

“Just… what do you want me to say?”

You smiled, sitting down cross-legged at his side, letting your knees dig into his side and stabilizing you as you leaned over and splayed your hand just above his dick, pinky lightly brushing it. You were eye level with him, staring him down unblinking.

“Just admit it. Admit what you are now.”

“… I’m ah-”

He faltered, distracted by the pinky you had stroked slowly up the top of his shaft.

“Hm?”

“I’madirtymurdering bastard please touch it.”

You smiled at him, smug pride at his easy fulfilment of your request written all over it. Your hand wrapped around his dick, feeling that it was somewhat clammy from where you had rode it like he’d said. You idly twisted your hand around it, simply warming up the flesh to make it comfortable against your palm. The long time since you rode him must have made him shockingly sensitive, as the simple action had him panting.

“Yes… yesss…”

You stopped, cupping your hand so your palm hovered teasingly just over the slippery head.

“Stupid Turbo. You think I want to hear an evil killer enjoying himself? What should you say instead?”

He blinked, his mind struggling to stay in the game rather than sit by the sidelines after the return to simple pleasure.  
“I’m… Sorry?”

“Good.”

You ran your palm around the head, smearing the salty fluid over the surface. Life returned to his face as he struggled with the words but was forced to test them out.

“I! I’m sssorry?”

You slid once down the shaft, your hand slightly dry against it but warm with the friction, and he easily got used to the phrase.

“I’m sorry!”

A few more strokes and he was babbling it like it was second nature.

“God I’m sorry. Sssooo fuckin sorry. I’m sorryyyy sorry. Sorry sssorry I’m sorry.”

He mumbled and gasped the words so many times as you slowly pumped the shaft that the words began to lose meaning in your ears. You stopped your strokes, running a finger lightly against the edge of the head as you mulled over a few ideas.

“Whhh-what’s wrong?”

His eyes were struggling to stay open, having been shut in pleasure, and his expression was confused.

“I was just thinking. That’s enough apologies - for now that is, since there will never be enough. I was think, I want something else.”

“Anything. Anything you want.”

“I want you to tell me what horrible thing you are. Every different way you can think of.”

He gulped. You were at a wonderful angle to see his abused adam’s apple bobbing down in his neck. He couldn’t even think well enough to keep his dignity. Now he had to juggle words.

“Ummm… I’m a character killer?”

You gave him a firm stroke, no longer playing around as you had earlier, to reward him.

“Iiii am fucking despicable.”

You picked up the pace.

“Oh fuck I’m horrible just horrible. I’m a murderer, scum of this earth, oh oh fuck I’m? I’m a violent criminal I’m a coward I uh I’m irredeemable? yeah. I… I deserve thi-”

With each self-defamation you’d picked up the pace. You were surprised he could even speak with your fist flying up and down his dick like it was. Your arm started to burn, but it was worth it to hear him put effort into talking bad about himself. His eyes flicked up each time he struggled for words, but when you reached out and used your other hand to roughly squeeze his balls, you felt them give a tight twitch in your hand and his eyes rolled fully back in his head and his through closed off in a strangled moan before he could utterly roll over and say he deserved his punishment. You could feel his torso spasming against your knees as he came. He’d stopped breathing, so the wet splat of jism hitting his chest and jumpsuit sounded out loud and clear. When his dick finally stopped twitching, only clear fluid leaking from it, he took in a painful sounding gasp and let his eyes peek back out from under his fluttering lids, though it was still a few second before they focused again.

While you waited for the haze to clear from his brain, you ran a finger through the pool of sperm in the pocket between his rib cage and gut. You smeared it about, enjoying the thought of it drying in the chest hair there and you pulling the clumps harshly apart once it was all stuck together. You licked the excess off your fingers, the taste bitter and offensive like its producer. You saw over your knuckles Turbo’s bright yellow eyes following your actions unabashedly. You swiped up a bit more of the thick fluid, smirking at him.

“Oh? You’re hungry for some too?”

As he opened his mouth to deny it, you spread the jizz on the soft flesh on the inside of his lips. He was stunned, a thin strand of the rapidly drying goop trailing between his top and bottom teeth. Then, angrily, he turned his head away, but not enough that you could see his lips snap closed, watch the slight indent of his tongue running behind them to gather it up. The swallow was subtle, but the way he licked his lips after, gathering any last traces of the taste, was not.

You chuckled and patted his head, standing back up.

“Good boy. Filthy boy.”

You began rifling through the pile nearest you, flipping between search ing it and slipping back on articles of clothing. He still watched you, but his earlier urge to spout verbal harassment whenever he wasn’t making sounds of pain seemed to be drained out of him. His face was blank and placid as he followed your movements, a bruise forming dark and purple on his neck and temple, and the ring of a bite mark was turning a livid red and violet on the bridge of his nose. You thought he looked perfect, covered in wounds, jizz, and sweat.

“Hey, you don’t happen to have another one of those tomato things do you?”

“Why? Your nose still smarting?”

He still seemed to have some fragments of pride, and he stopped himself before he admitted he was suffering.

You were fully dressed, if still disheveled, when you found what you were looking for, and when Turbo thought of another question.

“So, are you going to turn me over now? Imprison me or something? I think I might need a bit of a hose down first…”

You threw the golden tanooki cape you’d pulled out of the pile over his prone form, watching as it stuck in spots to the still damp spunk. You began pushing the loose items and powerups in the pile on top of his weakly struggling form, getting confused yelps from him in response.

“You think I’m going to share you? No. No way. They’d go way too easy on a scumball like you. Besides, if you sit tight and wait like the good little bitch you are, I have something in mind for you tomorrow. So just… sit tight.”

You hummed happily to yourself, enjoying his muffled sounds of shock and outrage as you straightened a mis-buttoned section of your shirt and ran a few fingers through your mussed hair. Plans were already forming for the next day, ones involving your various weapon harnesses and your personal toys, and they had you grinning like a loon as you skipped back up the stairs. You saw Greg, sleeping in his chair as he let a horror film run on one of his computer monitors. He was an abnormally deaf young electrode. You resumed your patrol, not having been missed in the relatively peaceful day, with a spring in your step. For what had started as a relatively crappy morning, it had turned out to be a wonderful day for you. And tomorrow would be even better.


End file.
